


Fifth Anniversary

by Nehszriah



Series: The Teacher, the Media Man, and the President of the United States [7]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Menstrual Sex, Mid-Goolding Inquiry, Prompt Fic, Smut, attempts at conception, eventual success at conception, failed attempt at conception, slight timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After trying to have a child for nearly five years straight, Clara thinks this might be it. When it turns out it isn't, Malcolm is there to help, because he's not going to let her go through it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifth Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Since this takes place in the timeline where Malcolm Tucker is Courtney Woods's mentor, the precise timing of this fic is a bit open to interpretation. I'd roughly say Summer 2011, but things are a bit up in the air considering the fact that the TTOI and DW timelines are very mushed up and vaguey-vague.
> 
> I also make no apologies for the potentially-squicky descriptions made in this, as such is life. If you haven't been tipped off by now, I dunno what to do for ya.

Clara took the calendar from the wall and counted the days backwards. Based on her calculations, the days didn’t necessarily all match up, but they were close enough to give her hope. She sat down at the kitchen table and tried to breathe slowly, keeping her back straight and palms flat on table.

Five years. It had taken almost five whole years of trying, but if she was correct, then they were _finally_ going to have a baby.

“Okay, Clara Oswald… you are very possibly pregnant,” she said aloud, to make it seem a bit more real. “Remember, this is what you and Malcolm have been attempting to do since the day you married—the sooner you have kids, the sooner your husband takes early retirement so he can stay at home with them, and the sooner he retires, the sooner he leaves that bloody catfight down at Whitehall.”

She blinked before touching her face in surprise; there were tears running down her cheeks. The doctor _had_ told her that there was nothing wrong with either of them, and that sometimes it just takes a while for the first child to happen, but that hadn’t stopped them both from doubting.

Doubting… _ha_ … that would be an understatement. It was something that she couldn’t condense into mere words. Doubting didn’t mean sobbing herself to sleep when her period came, sometimes without the comfort of her husband’s reassuring embrace. It didn’t mean growing paranoid concerning every stomach bug and change in appetite, or becoming disillusioned every time her period was late. If it were simply a matter of doubt, then that would have been easy… but these things never really were.

Heck, Clara didn’t even know if she’d be able to celebrate their wedding anniversary properly this year, as a certain group of screw-ups still allowed to be in government were dead-set on ruining all their plans.

The front door opened and the Glasgow timbre of Malcolm’s voice came filtering through the house. “Clara? Love? You home?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” she replied, quickly wiping her face. Clara smiled when she saw her husband walk in bearing a bouquet of different-colored daisies, which she took with a kiss to the lips. “You’re starting a bit early.”

“Never too early to shower you in all the love and affection you fucking deserve,” he claimed. Malcolm watched as she put the flowers in a vase and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” she lied.

“These eyes don’t look like nothing,” he said. He went up to her and held her face in his hands, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs. “Who needs to be put in their place? I’ll make them wish they never even looked at you.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” she said quickly. Clara placed her hands on Malcolm’s chest, making sure he knew she was fine. He held her wrists gently, gazing down at her curiously.

“If it’s not, then why are you crying?”

“It’s nothing at the moment—trying not to get too optimistic.”

“Wait… you mean, this _could_ be something in a couple months’ time?” he asked, brows raising hopefully. She nodded before pressing her forehead into his chest, which caused him to wrap his arms around her, caressing her gently. “Hey, hey, this could be it, darling. How far along would this one be?”

“Six weeks.”

“Six is good,” he murmured. “Six is really good.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, holding her tightly. “How about if I don’t pop one of those blue bastards tonight, yeah? Just see where this goes?”

“Do you want to take that chance?” she asked, voice warbling.

“I think so,” he said. “C’mon; let’s make us some dinner. I’ve been dying to try out that chicken recipe Sam gave us the other day.”

* * *

After making dinner together, showering, and having their nightly chamomile cuppa, Malcolm and Clara went to bed purely in cuddling mode. It was interesting, Clara thought as she felt her husband’s slow breaths against her back and his lips in her hair, that she could not remember the last time they went to bed like this without her bleeding their chances away in the process. She allowed herself to fall asleep gently and without worry, which was at least better than things had been as of late.

With any luck… this was exactly what they were hoping for.

* * *

Precisely a week later, Clara woke up alone in bed, which was fairly common occurrence in her married life, though there was a note in place of her husband, which wasn’t anything usual. She took it and chuckled at the contents, expecting nothing less.

‘ _Be ready for a horny hubby at quitting time. –Malcolm_ ’

“You berk,” she laughed. She knew he could turn even the most average of days into romantic trysts, though this was their fifth anniversary—anything could happen. Actually, their fifth anniversary, and she was _pregnant_ , according to the test she took earlier in the week. Number six could be filled with a screeching, nappy-soiling, suckling wee creature, but that wouldn’t matter. If that happened, then it would be Malcolm’s first summer in his new career of “Dad”, and things would be incredible. It was the only way he’d ever retire from his life’s mission to cow as many high-society tits and twats into submission as possible, which would be a welcome change of pace.

Getting up and out of bed, Clara went about preparing for the day ahead. She powerwalked on the treadmill in the basement, while at least glad her husband’s job necessitated there being a television right there so she could watch the news, and did what little needed to be done to straighten up the house afterwards. They had already gone out to eat the night before, in case work dragged Malcolm away yet again, so it was up to Clara to figure out what they were going to have for dinner that night. A curry takeaway sounded nice and nostalgic enough; she modified her shopping list and went out.

A shopping trip later and she returned home to continue preparing for the evening ahead. Chill the fake, nonalcoholic wine in the fridge, get the toys out and make sure they’re clean, make sure there were no rips or loose threads in her lingerie—it was a lot of effort and work, but she found that it helped keep her mind busy. That was the dangers about being a teacher in the summer not teaching remedial courses: a restless mind driving her insane. She made do by playing housewife for the most part, though she knew that if anyone were to consider her weak for it, they had a bollocking in-stereo and another think coming.

Soon it was five o’clock, meaning it was time to get herself physically ready for when Malcolm would come home and they could be debauched as ever, using their anniversary as an excuse to be excruciatingly dirty when it came to one another. Clara climbed into the shower and began to quickly wash up, not wanting to be in the middle of things when Malcolm arrived. She let the water run hot in order to steam away the aches she attributed both to her ripe old age of thirty-something and the greasy chips she had earlier in the day. Her stomach was roiling in discomfort, which had her put a mental note to steal some of her husband’s antacids before he came home.

…at least, that was the plan until she looked down while washing her legs and saw red swirling towards the drain. Her breath caught as she leaned against the shower wall, trying not to panic. She felt between her legs and held her fingers up, her fears compounded when she saw that red, clottish discharge all over her hand.

She wasn’t pregnant.

Wait, had she been, according to the kit? No, that wasn’t a hundred-percent chance correct for another couple of weeks.

Oh, God… she wasn’t pregnant.

Using the wall for support, Clara sat down in the tub and began to sob, letting the water wash over her. Either she had never been pregnant to begin with, the test kit producing a false positive, or she had lost the baby too early to be certain of anything. Both outcomes were terrible to consider—she had gotten her hopes up, gotten _Malcolm’s_ hopes up, and now there was nothing to look forward to. Her husband wouldn’t retire at the Christmas holiday, they would have no reason to discuss names or potential godparents, and there would be nothing they could rub in her smug stepmother’s face, because it hadn’t actually happened.

“…Clara…?”

The sound of Malcolm’s voice made her jerk her head up in surprise, snapping her head in the direction of the door. There he was, standing in the doorway while staring at her. He hadn’t taken off his jacket or shoes, seemingly having come directly to figure out where she was. Stepping forward, he carefully drew back the clear shower curtain and knelt down besides the tub in order to turn off the water.

“What are you doing? Trying to get fucking pneumonia?” he wondered. He swore, of course, but there was no malice in his voice. “Shit… you’re all pruny—what’s going on?”

Clara felt the water still pooled next to her feet, realizing it was ice cold. How long had she been there? She looked at Malcolm and tried choking it out, but only made a couple raspy noises instead.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” he said. “Charades, how about that?” She nodded, accepting the offer. “Alright, now, what’s wrong?” Clara placed her hand low on her stomach and shook her head, trying to not burst into hysterical tears once again. She saw the sad expression that settled over his face and her heart felt like it was going to shatter.

“Malcolm… I…”

“Oi, none of that now,” he said, leaning forward to leave a kiss on her forehead. “Let’s get you sorted, yeah?”

“Okay,” she said. He then vanished into the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with rolled shirtsleeves and a pile of clothes. After being the brace in order for her to safely stand and step out of the tub, he helped her wipe up and dry off, making sure that she had a sanitary pad and fluffy, flannel pajamas to wear. Malcolm then carried his wife out of the bathroom and set her down on the bed, tucking her lap into the covers.

“How about some takeaway tonight?” he offered. “Nothing fancy.”

“That’s what I was planning,” she admitted.

“Good—now you just stay here and let me take care of you,” he said. “You’re always looking after me physically; now let me return the favor.”

Clara nodded reluctantly and let him fuss over her. He changed into his own pajama trousers and an old t-shirt from days gone by, ordering some takeaway and making them tea. Throughout the dinner they had while wrapped up in bed, he regaled her with stories about the fuck-ups he had been dealing with the past few weeks, and how a couple of them had gone from bad to worse. There were very few people he didn’t have to have a shout at once a month, at the least, and as long as he had his ability to take control, he would keep the Party standing just a while longer. He then took the takeaway containers and binned them downstairs in the kitchen, returning with flutes of the fake wine in his hands. Passing one to Clara, Malcolm sat back down in his spot and wrapped an arm around her as she leaned into his side.

“Do you think maybe we should go see someone? You know, get a second opinion?” she wondered quietly.

“You’re still young and I’ve got nothing clogged up—if things are still the same by our tenth, that’s when the specialist wanks are going to be called in,” he said, sipping some of the fake wine. “It’s no one’s fault, and I don’t mind waiting a while longer.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she muttered sourly. “Dad always said that having me was hard on Mum… what if we’re losing precious time by waiting?”

“We’re not, and trust me,” he murmured. He placed the flutes on the nightstand and slid down into the bed, taking Clara with him. “Even if you’re all the family I’ll ever have, you’re still my family, and that’s enough for me.”

“ _Malcolm_ …” she started, only to be cut off by a tender kiss. He positioned himself atop her, as was automatic now thanks to their research into prime baby-making positions, though instead of going headlong into the instinctual frenzied fuck they normally did, he leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“May I love you?” he asked. “You’re the only thing that matters to me right now in this world of cunts, and I’d like to demonstrate that.”

“Yeah,” she squeaked. “If that’s what you want.”

“Darling, I’ve been waiting for it all day.”

Tossing the sheets off of them, Malcolm went about unbuttoning Clara’s shirt and working it off her shoulders. Pressing small kisses to her skin, he worked his way down her chest, teasing her nipples with teeth and tongue, keeping on his path until his evening stubble was at her navel, scratching the skin there as he continued. He eased off her trousers and kissed her hips, lips and fingers ghosting down to the inside of her thighs. She arched her back and moaned in approval—a sound unnaturally twisted by half a sob—and ran her fingers through his short hair as he rubbed his nose against her knickers, right where her clit sat underneath the fabric and sanitary pad. He didn’t dare take off her knickers yet, so he left a kiss by her cunt before he sat up and took his own shirt and trousers off, discarding them on the floor. Malcolm then went back up to his wife’s face, slipping his tongue past her teeth in a tender kiss and letting his hands roam around her bare skin.

He then shifted and groaned, knowing that the pill he took on the commute home was starting to work, and knelt up, staring down at Clara’s flushed face. Malcolm edged his pants down and took his cock out, heavy, hot, and thick thanks to the meds, and positioned their hips together so that when he moved her knickers out of the way, he could immediately plunge in. Grinding in sync, they worked one another up until they came—Clara shuddering tightly around Malcolm, with him spilling into her a few thrusts after. He knelt there panting, recovering just long enough for his brain to begin working again.

Tissues next to the champagne flutes, yeah. He grabbed for those and wiped the red off of himself and Clara before replacing their pants. With some clean ones, he dabbed at her face and forehead, getting all the tears and sweat he could.

“Feel better?” he wondered.

“Yeah,” she sniffled. “It still doesn’t change the fact I’m on my period after thinking we were finally pregnant.”

“Just think of it this way: we can always adopt,” he said. He pulled her into his chest, both of them sweaty and sticky, and pulled the sheet up to cover them. “Just promise me no more of this shitty panic nonsense. I know you’re worried because things aren’t going as planned, but this is one of those things we need to let happen—like an uppity backbencher destroying their career over some nutter policy to end world hunger via free-range sheep shit or something like that. It’s the sort of thing a person needs to watch play out to the end before doing anything.”

“You better be careful, or I’m going to let it slip that Malcolm Tucker is a giant softie, wanting to do things like adopt kids while making sweet love to his barren young wife,” she half-giggled.

“Who wouldn’t want to raise kids with you, let alone make love to you?” he posed. He kissed her forehead and settled down, feeling the gradual slowing of his pulse as he drifted off towards sleep. “I think by the time we’re ready for more, the hot water will have fully recuperated.”

“I’m sure it’s recuperated _now_.”

“I’m not fucking Superman, love,” he chuckled lowly. They snuggled together and fell asleep, despite the relatively early hour, not knowing that there was still nearly two whole years of the tears and doubts and reassurances… at least, when it came to this.


	2. Sixth Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a prompt that was building upon the other, so I decided to throw it up here in the same story, for completeness's sake.

Clara woke up splayed out in bed, something that she was becoming increasingly accustomed to as of late. It was odd to her that she never seemed to oversleep while she was living in London, though here, out in the countryside, she definitely was able to have a restful lie-in more often than not. It was the lack of noise, she decided, because even in Malcolm’s cozy little neighborhood, there was always something happening to wake her up. Out here, past the Green Belt, was a quiet little paradise she was growing incredibly fond of in a short amount of time. Sure it was still laden with all the little quirks that came with living in a small town, but that was she expected when she picked the little cottage two months prior.

As she prepared herself for the day ahead, Clara noted how surreal it was, using her summer to prepare the house for when her husband retired at the end of the year. They had sat down in April and went over everything—finances, personal preferences, the like—and decided that they were going to get out while they could. The Party was going nowhere, fast, and he could see the wheels that were set in motion. Reeder would replace him in no less than three years’ time, provided there wasn’t another major election again, and everything that he had worked for would get pissed right down the government’s leg. Rather wanting to die a martyr in the line of duty than let that happen to him, Malcolm said he was going to fuck them all over and up and leave. Shadow Cabinet wasn’t _the_ Cabinet, and it wouldn’t directly affect too many people as he watched things crash and burn, meaning he was in a perfect position to teach everyone a very valuable lesson.

If there was anything Malcolm wanted to end the career that drove him grey and didn’t so much as say ‘thank you’, it was going out on his own terms. Let Reeder fuck things up; they’d come _begging_ to him when they realized what they were missing. In the meantime, he would be resting comfortably, which was something he couldn’t remember doing for longer than two days within the past twenty-odd years, and he was going to do so in the fresh country air with his wife by his side. Clara had decided that she was going to treat the ordeal like an extended sabbatical and did everything when it came to the new house. She searched the market for it, bought it, and was the one slowly moving things from the house in London out to there. Malcolm wasn’t going to see it until the Christmas holiday, when he hung up his hat for good. According to the neighbors he was away overseas for one last time before retiring, meaning no one else in the sleepy little village knew or assumed otherwise. She was Mrs. Oswald, her husband’s name was Malcolm, and that’s all they really needed to know.

She had dressed and had breakfast before finishing up the last of her unpacking from the last set. Clara liked to take everything a little bit at a time, making it so that she was slowly accustomed to country life. It was enjoyable enough, but she had lived in cities all her life until that point, and she wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to go insane calling a country cottage home. She broke down the final box and put it, along with the others, in the boot of her small car before hopping in and driving back into London proper. It was a little after two when she finally pulled into the drive, amazed when she was able to pull in next to Malcolm’s car—he was home early, for once.

Soon as Clara opened up the door, she was hit with the smells of rich, heavy cooking coming from the kitchen. The times when she’d come home to dinner on the stove were rare; none of the magic had been lost since the last time, she realized as she attempted to not become a puddle on the floor. She locked the door behind her and almost floated into the kitchen, her arms immediately wrapping around her husband’s waist as he stood at the stove.

“Happy anniversary, darling,” Malcolm purred.

“ _Christ_ —I’m going to slide off the chair soon as I sit down at this rate,” Clara muttered into his back. She glanced around his body and saw the lack of a ring on his left hand. “And _where_ , Mister Tucker, is your wedding band?”

“Waiting where you left it,” he said plainly. Clara copped a feel before leaving the kitchen, heading into the sitting room and grabbing the small jewelry box from atop the mantle. She pulled a ring from it and replaced the box, bringing the band into the kitchen with her. Malcolm stopped cooking long enough to let her slip it back on his finger—she was the one to take it off, so she was the one to put it back on. It was the only way they could really reconcile him not wearing a ring to keep people at work off his back. Nearly anyone who asked where it went was told there was a divorce, and the ones who knew otherwise were clever enough to keep their yaps shut.

Shit luck in picking the winning political party could also translate into shit luck with women, and Malcolm utilized that to keep Clara off of people’s radar.

With the drapes closed, their early dinner was lit by almost a dozen candles while some smooth jazz played off Malcolm’s iPod. The couple did dishes together and once the live flames were snuffed, decided to snuggle on the couch and relax, letting themselves digest a bit before getting into anything too active.

“Remind me to take the boxes out of the boot before I leave in the morning,” Clara said, resting her head on Malcolm’s shoulders.

“Sounds like a plan.” He squeezed her shoulders a little tighter, kissing the top of her head. “I’ve missed you.”

“…and I’ve missed you,” she replied. Clara settled herself in and closed her eyes, glad to be back in Malcolm’s arms again. Once a week was too long to go without so much as touching him, which made the fact they hadn’t turned off the stove and pounced on one another soon as she arrived nearly a miracle. It was a while before either of them spoke again, simply relishing the fact they were together.

“I was over at DoSAC last week,” he mentioned casually. She looked at him curiously, wondering why he could have possibly mentioned that. “Needed to talk to an old mate over there about my retirement and I wanted to do it in-person; he gave me an idea and we’ve been working towards it.”

“Alright, you saw Glenn Cullen, as he’s the only person over there you have even a shred of respect for, and you decided to conspire to do _something_ , though what exactly beats me,” she figured.

“Not just me and him, but we’re sucking a couple others into it,” he said. “See, figure I might as well pull some last strings while I’m able to do so, and there’s still a couple people who _don’t_ completely hate my guts.”

“Such as…?”

“Bridget in Social Services, for one,” he shrugged. “Before the election, I was able to get her twat of a boss tossed out on her arse and brought in a new one; completely turned that place around in the long-run. When she needed a ministerial push, we were able to contact Backbencher Woods as well, and she didn’t mind making a couple calls to remind a couple sacks of skin what is what.”

“You got Courtney into this? You must be bonkers,” Clara chuckled. She frowned, however, as Malcolm stood up and went towards the kitchen. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing; just getting your anniversary present,” he said. He plucked a manila folder out of the recipe drawer and brought it back with him as he returned to his spot. Malcolm waited until his wife was snuggled into his side again before handing it over. She opened it, pulling out a thin stack of papers.

“What is it?”

“I married you because you _can_ read,” he teased. Clara let herself laugh at that as she began to flip through the pages, her face becoming progressively grimmer as she went on.

“Malcolm,” she said, “this is a release statement for a background check… and another concerning our incomes. What’s going on here?”

“People like Glenn and Bridget and Courtney, they’re the ones who believe me when I say I’m not some sort of fucking maniac axe-murder at home and that I’ve got it in me to really _be something_ if I tried. I told them I want to be a da, and we’ve been trying all this time, and that I’d want to put this in motion before I put in my two weeks and Nicola kisses my farting arse goodbye.”

“You mean…” She flipped through the papers and found the one she needed to see the most, the one that _really_ spelled it all out, just to make sure this was real. “You got us on the list for adoption… oh my gosh, _Malcolm_ … you got us on the list!” Clara then began to break down and cry, too happy for words. Her husband took the papers from her hands and placed them on the coffee table before wrapping his arms around her.

“Not the top, but near enough,” he explained. “Things shut down on the Wednesday before Christmas, and the lady in charge of all that is willing to meet with us the day after so that we don’t cause a commotion. After that, the case can be transferred to the county where we’ll be raising the nip, meaning we don’t have to go back unless we want to, and no one out in the sticks will be the wiser.”

“How did you even get this to go through?” she marveled. “I wouldn’t think retirees and pensioners were often considered because of their fixed income.”

“I don’t know how it fucking works, but my guess is that size matters,” he snickered. “Glenn and Bridget both had to pick their jaws up off the floor when I told them how much I’d be getting—it shouldn’t feel this fucking good to be _old_.”

“…and you’re about to feel even _better_ —come on,” Clara said. She jumped up from the couch and pulled Malcolm to his feet, the couple running towards and up the stairs. They were barely in their bedroom before their clothes were off and they began lavishing one another in kisses and lustful touches. Picking up Clara, Malcolm let her latch onto his waist with her thighs as he carried her to bed. She let out a low, satisfied moan as he sat down, feeling his hot, hard cock beneath her.

“Haven’t so much as fucking touched myself except to take a piss since you last left,” he murmured in her ear. “Do you know how much my balls _ache_ right now?”

“About as much as I do.”

She guided him into her and took delight in the noises he made as she ground against him, satisfying them both. It had been too long for either of them—they were shaky and ragged almost immediately, coming not too long after starting. The late-afternoon was still young and Malcolm took his medication at dinner; they’d get at least two more goes in before they were too tired to do anything but cuddle themselves to sleep.

* * *

Months went by and the Oswald-Tuckers continued their weekly ritual. Clara would stay in the cottage, unpacking bit by bit, turning the house into a home, while Malcolm packed things for her in London, and they would shag to their hearts’ content on the weekend when she came in to drop boxes off and pick them up. They were waiting for December to roll around, because that was when Malcolm would pack up what little was in his office and leave the Party to their own devices.

 _Fuck ‘em_ , was their mantra, and it grew stronger with every day.

Come November, however, disaster struck. Malcolm and others were stuck in the middle of a government inquiry, meaning Clara couldn’t come down to London at all. She didn’t really feel up to the journey most days anyhow, due to how sick she felt even _thinking_ about what was going on. It was stress, she thought, as she made an appointment at the local doctor’s office to ask an opinion on what to do until she had her husband back for good. He was taking care of some last-minute things at the office, and that’s why she saw him, yet he was never there, she had explained. The doctor couldn’t help shaking her head and explaining the facts.

It was not actually stress… not from Malcolm’s absence, at least.

Coming out of the office in a daze, Clara went through the motions of a normal day in order to catch her bearings. She stopped at the store to pick up things for dinner, dropped some bills in the post box on the corner, and even talked with the neighbors on the way back home. If things had been surreal before, they certainly were even moreso now.

Walking into the house, Clara placed the shopping on the kitchen table and sank into a chair. What would she tell Malcolm? _When_ would she tell him, considering there was a communications ban during the inquiry until he was certain everything was in the clear? All sorts of thoughts raced through her head until she heard her mobile chirping in her purse. She pulled it out and checked it—junk email—although there was something there that she had failed to notice until now: a voicemail.

Clara looked at the little icon on the screen and frowned—someone had probably called while she was out and it took until now for her to realize it. She dialed her voicemail and leaned back in the chair, waiting. The robotic voice on the other end announced the message before letting it switch over. There was a pause, which nearly made her hang up, until she heard Malcolm’s voice on the other end.

“ _I’m sorry, love_ ,” he said. Her eyes went wide, terrified of the low, broken timbre behind the words. “ _I don’t know how, but I fucked up. I fucked up real bad and… fuck. I’m sorry for being such a cunt_.” He sounded as though he was choking back tears, which only made it necessary for Clara to hold in some of her own. “ _Jamie and Sam’ll help; they’ll be there soon. Don’t come ‘round—it’s not safe. Fucking… I lov_ —”

The message cut off and Clara was left standing there in the empty house. She scrambled for the remote and turned on the television, flipping immediately to the news. It took a few minutes for the story to appear, but once it was there, everything was clear as day.

Malcolm leaked a dead man’s NHS number. Whether he meant to do it or not, he leaked Mister Tickell’s NHS number, and therefore all his files for all the world to see. She sank to the couch as she watched footage of Malcolm attempting to stutter out a reply that would exonerate him of any foul deeds.

 _No_ …

A sharp knock at the door snapped Clara from her stupor. She went to answer it, allowing Jamie to push his way in while Sam was apologizing right behind him.

“I’m telling you: it’s a fucking set-up,” Jamie growled, not appearing to talk to anyone in particular. “We’re gonna catch the fucking cunt that did this, cut off his dick, then fuck him with it!” He paced around the sitting room cursing while Clara stared at Sam, hoping she had something worth saying.

“Malcolm left instruction with us before the inquiry began as a preemptive measure,” she said shakily. Sam seemed about as thrown as Clara, though the extra time she had to steady herself was showing. “There’s paperwork already half-prepared to give you access to all his funds, even his retirement money, which would only make it even _more sure_ that the government can’t touch a penny of it. I haven’t been able to get a hold of the woman from Social Services yet, but I’m sure that we can work it out to where _you_ can still adopt, with Malcolm technically having nothing to do with it.”

“No, I…” Clara began. She then eyed Jamie, who was still ranting and raving across the rug, a thought running through her mind. “I’ve got some Irn Bru in the fridge—it was supposed to be Malcolm’s, but…”

“Thanks, Clar; you’re a peach,” he replied. “Could use one after the likes of today, fuck; I’d ask for some whiskey, but…” By then he was out of the room, his voice muffled by the surprisingly-well-insulated walls.

“What’s wrong?” Sam wondered, keeping her voice down. She led Clara over to the couch and sat her down, watching as tears silently streamed down the other woman’s cheeks. “It’s alright if you’re upset; I think you’re more than allowed to be upset.”

“I’m not _upset_ … not how I should be,” Clara admitted. “I… I just don’t think I’m going to keep that meeting and adopt a child without my husband there with me.”

“Plenty of single moms are adopters,” Sam assured her.

“…except, I don’t think I can handle two on my own, not like that,” Clara said quietly. “I’d rather a kid go to a home where their new family can pay proper attention to them.”

“Sad as it is, I think being a mum will be a nice distraction.”

“It will be.”

Sam’s jaw dropped and her eyes bugged. “Are you _serious_?!”

“Went to the doctor’s today—I’m pregnant,” Clara said, voice wavering. “I’m pregnant and my husband will likely be in _prison_ when the baby’s born and… oh, this sounds like some sort of trashy soap…”

“Wait, you’re _what_ …?” Sam and Clara glanced towards the doorway to see Jamie standing there, half a bottle of pop in-hand. “Don’t tell me Malc is getting stuffed away while you’re up the duff—I could kill him…”

“No, no, no, Jamie, no!” Clara panicked. “Please, don’t do anything _else_ to make him feel bad!”

“After all this time though, he picks _now_ to fucking—”

“James Campbell MacDonald, you will **_not_** be the one to punish my husband over this,” she said resolutely. The man backed down and sat in a chair, taking a pensive sip of his drink instead of arguing. Clara then sank back onto the couch and silently allowed her tears to flow.

“Who knows about this?” he asked.

“You two,” she replied. “Only just found out.”

“Are you far enough along to where they’re confident that’s what it is?” Sam asked. Clara nodded in silent response. “Alright, then this is what we’re going to do: write down everything you want Malcolm to know and I’ll deliver it to him. He’s not arrested yet, but his phones and computer are in possession of the police right now. Either Jamie or I will let you know when you can start coming back to London again to get the last of your things, and I’m sure we can help with some of the lifting.”

“Thanks.”

“…and in the meantime, fill out that shitty-arsed paperwork and mail it to Sammy’s flat so we can make sure you get everything that’s coming to you and the bairn,” Jamie added, his voice somber. “Is that a deal?”

“Deal.”

* * *

“Malcolm,” Sam said. It was the next morning and they were preparing to head into the inquiry office for the day. It crushed the woman to see her employer and friend to look so crushed, so defeated, as they were walking along the pavement.

“Hmm?”

“I have something for you, from my errand last night.” She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him, guiding him aside so as not to clog the heavy foot traffic that was on the street that morning. He opened it up and read the contents, written in Clara’s neat hand.

‘ _Due early July (?); will write sex later. You have input. Still love you._ ’

Folding up the piece of paper, Malcolm exhaled heavily before handing back the note. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s a bit more incentive to get back to the missus in one piece.”

“Then let’s go wow them and get yourself exonerated,” Sam said encouragingly. “There’s still plenty of inquiry to be had.”


End file.
